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He gave John another hard look as he leaned down to return the identification to him. John returned the look without expression, then drove through the gates.
He stopped the car in front of a massive curving entry and got out. Immediately a pair of red-jacketed valets approached; one got out his luggage, while the other gave him a ticket, got into the car, and drove it away. It would probably receive a thorough search while it was in their possession, John thought. His luggage, too.
Let them search. They wouldn’t get any information from it, not even his fingerprints. He had carefully sprayed his fingertips with a clear-coat gel that hardened and provided a smooth finish. It was thin and very nearly undetectable to the touch and would come off when he washed his hands with hot water. A cold-water wash wouldn’t disturb the gel.
The spray was a vast improvement over the methods he had used in the past; sometimes he would dip his fingertips into puddles of melted wax, but the wax wasn’t very durable. For a brief job or an emergency, however, it would do. Another trick was to paint his fingertips with a thick application of clear fingernail polish, but he had to have time for it to dry or that was useless. Band-Aids wrapped around each finger were a quick and effective method of hiding his prints, but someone wi
th bandages on every finger was noticeable—at least, if that someone was over three years old.
As he mounted the steps, a tall, tuxedo-clad man approached. “Mr. Temple,” he said in a crisp British accent. “Mr. Ronsard will see you now. Follow me, please.”
John silently followed, not inclined to exchange pleasantries. He could hear music, and people in formal dress stood in small groups, laughing and chattering in a mix of languages. The women glittered in jewels, and so did some of the men. His own tuxedo was severely cut, without a frill or ruffle in sight, but the cut and fit shouted that it was custom made for him. Several women glanced his way, then looked again. When he wanted, he could pass through a crowd completely unnoticed, but tonight he wanted people to notice. He walked with a silent, graceful saunter, like a panther that has seen its prey but knows there’s no need to hurry.
The elegant flunky led him to a small anteroom off the foyer. The room was comfortably furnished with a sofa and two wing-back chairs, a cozy little selection of books, a small fireplace, and a selection of spirits. Considering that the room was no more than eight feet square, and that the door had a sturdy lock, John guessed that it was there more for quick and furtive lovemaking than it was for any other purpose. A good host always provided for his guests, after all.
“Monsieur Temple.” Ronsard rose to his feet as John entered. He nodded a dismissal at the other man, who silently closed the door behind him as he left. “I am Louis Ronsard.” He extended his hand, every inch a gracious host.
John let a fraction of a second lapse before he took Ronsard’s hand. Not a flicker of expression crossed his face. “Why am I here?” he finally asked, his tone low and controlled. “This . . . meeting wasn’t necessary.”
“I think it is.” Ronsard was slick about it, but he was carefully studying John’s face. “I don’t like dealing with unknown factors. Moreover, you knew about a compound that is very new and supposed to be unknown. Would you mind telling me how you came to hear of it?”
John regarded him silently, eyes at half-mast. “I don’t like to be called by name in the middle of a crowd, and my definition of a crowd is any number greater than two.” Let Ronsard wait for his answers; he wasn’t in the mood to be cooperative.
“I assure you, no one here has any idea who you are.”
“And I assure you, there’s always at least one person at parties like this who is making a list of names, to be sold afterward.”
“I deal harshly with betrayal,” Ronsard said softly. Evidently deciding Temple wasn’t a man who could be charmed, impressed, or intimidated, he indicated the chairs. “Please, be seated. Would you like a drink?”
John chose one of the wing-back chairs. “I don’t drink.”
Ronsard paused with his hand on a decanter, his eyebrows lifted, then moved his hand to a bottle and poured himself a small amount of wine.
“I apologize if you think coming here has jeopardized your cover. But I’m a cautious man too, and handling this compound is not without its own risk I do so only when I am assured that this is a legitimate order and that I am not being set up. So, given the secrecy surrounding the compound, I think you understand why I am interested in learning how you heard of it.”
John steepled his fingers, staring unblinkingly at Ronsard for a long moment. He saw Ronsard’s gaze flicker to the ring of entwined snakes on his left hand. “Flight 183,” he finally said.
“The plane crash? Yes, that was unfortunate. I suspected it was a . . . test, shall we say? I wasn’t aware beforehand.”
“I don’t care if it was a test or not. It worked.”
“But how did you find what explosive was used?”
“I . . . obtained a copy of the NTSB preliminary chemical analysis. I have access to a very good lab in Switzerland. The chemical fingerprint was similar to RDX. The NTSB found no evidence of a detonator. It’s self explanatory,” John said, his tone bored.
“Do you really think I would believe you put all this together by extrapolation?” Ronsard smiled gently. “No, someone told you. A second party has also approached me wanting to buy a quantity of the compound, someone who has no access to the NTSB. How could he know, unless by the same leak?”
“Ernst Morrell,” John supplied. “I told him.”
Ronsard stared at him a moment, then drank his wine. “You surprise me,” he murmured.
“Morrell will provide a . . . distraction. Anything that happens will be laid at his feet.”
“So he is a decoy.” Ronsard shook his head, smiling. “Mr. Temple, I salute you. That is truly devious.”
John relaxed, subtly but visibly. The stony expression on his face eased. He let himself blink. “If I’m lucky, the bastard will blow himself up. If I’m not lucky, he’ll still bring so much heat down on himself he’ll be caught. Either way, he won’t step on my toes again.”
“So you’ve met Morrell before?”
